Consequences
by Peres
Summary: Various answers to the 'Consequences' Mini-Fic Challenge on the CMDA forums. Warning: contains copious amounts of crack. It is highly recommended to have brain bleach handy.
1. The Courtship of Shale I

**Who:** Shale and Sloth Demon  
**Where:** The back of a moving Dalish land ship being pulled by halla - destination unknown  
**What:** "Just where are you placing your hands?"

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"No." Its voice filters through the creaking wood of the elf contraption. The elves' construction is as fragile as the elves themselves, and Shale wonders how something so flimsy can carry her weight. She also wonders just where the Warden is taking her. All it says is "It's a surprise." Stone is hard to surprise, but Shale is willing to let it try. The Warden has earned its little whims. So she crouches in the shuddering wood structure that smells of little squishy elves and the beasts who pull the little cart, and she waits, trying not to break anything by accident. Or on purpose.

The cart halts as the animals pulling it give a squalling cry. That sounds promising.

"Are we there yet?"

"Blood mages!" the Warden cries. "Stay where you are!"

Shale does not take kindly to orders, and there are mages' head to crush. She opens the land ship door – well, she tries. It implodes under her hand.

"What have we here?" The Sloth Demon towers above her. "A restless stone soul, how... intriguing. Don't you desire to be at rest, to gather moss peacefully?"

"I spent 30 years at rest. Being crapped on by pigeons," Shale says, lumbering past the demon. There is a mage paying insufficient attention to his surroundings. "It fertilized the moss, which covered my sparkly crystals." Shale reaches down to the mage... then she pauses, remembering one useful thing the painted elf had taught her. She shifts her stance. The mage sees her now and tries to wriggle away, but Shale's got a firm grip now –

"Shale!" the Warden splutters, breathless with laughter or exertion. "Just where are you placing your hands?"

"Upon his... goolies. Is that the word?" She crushes her hands together as the mage turns a satisfying shade of purple. Then she squishes his head.

That leaves only shades on the field – and the Sloth Demon. The Warden can handle it. The golem perches on the edge of the elves' contraption and kicks at the splinters of the door.

An oily shadow slips up beside her. "Stone heart," the Sloth Demon croons. "One of the crystals that adorns your arm has cracked."

She looks - "Pigeon crap. I liked that one. I will have to find a replacement."

"So tiring, so much effort," the demon murmurs. "I have one." It holds out a sparkly gem, cut like... like... what had the painted elf called it? A love heart? Shale thinks it's the prettiest thing she's ever seen. "It's yours, stone one. From me."


	2. Return to Ostagar

**Who:** Lady Isolde and Wade  
**Where:** Ostagar  
**What:** "Where did I put it?"

"Eeeeamon, mon petit cochon, eet ees so dull 'ere! Why do we linger? Can we not leave zees beesness to zee looters?"

"Looters wouldn't find what we're looking for, Lady Isolde," the master smith Wade said.

"Neizair would I, and yet I am still 'ere! Ugh!" Isolde shook a piece of decaying darkspawn off her boot. "My oh-so-precious leetle boots, zey will be ruined!"

"Isolde, for the Maker's sake, just sit down over there and shut up."

She pouted, but it was good advice. Besides, when Eamon snapped an order like that..."Yes, my lord 'usband," she said, with a little thrill. What a pity Wade was there. She had brought her gag with her, just in case of emergencies, and surely someone had some rope or chains... oh, well, even if the ribcage of that ogre was at a convenient height, the setting was not conducive to dalliance.

"Look!" Eamon fell to his knees (in Hurlock guts) beside a figure whose blood-stained armour still gleamed golden. He gathered it gently to his chest. "Cailan."

"Some of my best work, that armour," Wade muttered reverently. "Shame he didn't ask me to make it ogre-proof. There's a trick with drakescale and griffon blood... no, no, no, that's no good."

Eamon closed his nephew's eyes. "Take the armour, Wade. We'll present it to King Alistair at his coronation."

They set a pyre and wandered onward.

"Whatevair are you looking for?" Isolde asked.

"Over here!" Wade cried out; Eamon and Isolde approached the smith. There was a little clear space where the camp had been, and between a stone walkway and some tall trees – "this is where Loghain's tent would have been."

"Perfect," Eamon said, with a wicked little glint in his eye. Isolde recognised it right away –

"Ah, but no! Mastair Wade, he will zink zat –"

"He knows all about it," Eamon reassured her. "Why do I think I brought both of you along?"

"Herren has been very busy lately," Wade sighed. "Besides, he gets terribly grumpy about the shop. Not an artistic bone in his body. But I'm not particularly interested in the _artistic_ bone at the moment."

No, he isn't. Isolde can see that clearly. "Oooh, but you are so naughty, my 'usband!"

"Yes," he said, and pressed her back against the tree, hands moving swiftly as he tied the rope around her wrists. Behind him, Wade pulled his shirt off, revealing just what long hours at a forge will do for shaping muscles. The smith's bulky arms wrapped around Eamon's waist, his mouth nipping at his ear as the arl finished making his wife's bonds tight.

"Now, Isolde," he said, somewhat breathlessly, "where's your gag?"

"Ah," she purred. "Where did I put eet? Ah, yes. I remembair." She arched her back, watching the men – "Eet ees een my leetle bodice..."

And it was several days before they got back to Redcliffe.


	3. The Courtship of Shale II

**What:** Manacles and/or Monocles  
**Where:** The Blooming Rose  
**Other What:** "How many pigeons are in Ferelden?"

"This is your surprise?" Shale regards the building and concludes that it does not appeal, even if the red lanterns make the new crystal set in her arm shine most beautifully.

"Zevran made the reservations," the Warden says, and opens the door for her. Shale squeezes through with some difficulty and much irritation. The midgets build their entries large enough for her; why can't the humans, who are taller to begin with?

Inside, the squishy people watch her with an enjoyable amount of alarm, before the sister draws her into a room off the side, while the Warden gives instructions to someone. "Look at you," she coos (Shale hates cooing. It means something soft and smelly is about to land on her head). "Oooh, that's pretty! You are wearing your 'eart on your sleeve, no?"

"No," Shale says. "It is a crystal."

"I meant –" she is interrupted as the painted elf's mouth comes down on hers. She makes a noise, then her arms go around him.

"How nice," Shale observes. "Your heads so close together. What is that charming saying? 'Two birds with one stone?'" They do not heed her warning, and the banquet-room seems curiously lacking in stones. Shale decides to inspect some of the chests scattered around the edges of the room in hopes of finding one.

A large 'M" adorns the closest. 'M' for 'magic rocks'? 'Metamorphic rocks'? 'Minerals'? She'll even settle for 'Masonry'! She digs through the chest, throwing various items over her shoulder – a round bit of glass on a chain, a pair of handcuffs lined with velvet, and a jar of orange stuff that shattered at the sister's feet.

"My stone friend," the painted elf says, "why would you throw a jar of marmalade at us?"

"Party time!" the Warden announces, dragging the other Warden in with it, the dog following. "Apologies from Wynne and Ogren; I couldn't get a message to Sten or Morrigan. We are gathered, such as we are, to celebrate Shale's birthday!"

"Is this another squishy custom? A foolish notion."

"Well... maybe it's not your birthday, but it's been a year since we reactivated you. That's worth celebrating, isn't it? We brought presents!"

"Oooh, yes!" the sister squeals, like her pink thing did before the dwarf ate it. "Me first!" She digs in her pack and produces two thick leather pads with red straps. "I remembered our leetle discussion!"

Shale admires the shoes – but she prefers the Sloth Demon's gift.

"My turn," the painted elf says, and hands Shale a stone sculpture. It seems to be shaped like an arm with a fist on the end, but the sculptor was unskilled; there are a couple of round bits at the bottom. Shale starts to ask why the painted elf thought she would like a misshapen lump of rock, but when she sees how red the sister and the Wardens are turning, she decides it must be one of those fleshy things.

The other Warden hands Shale a piece of paper. "I still think that fixation of yours is creepy... but somebody _bonkers_ took a census map of pigeon distribution throughout Ferelden."

"It has given me a worthy gift," Shale says.

"From me," the Warden says, handing Shale a large green crystal.

"I prefer this colour now." Shale touches the pink one in her arm.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Later, Shale stands alone in a dark corner. A small light materialises out of the darkness.

She expected the Demon would appear again.

"Stone one," it murmurs. "I am trespassing here. This is not my domain... but I, too, have a gift to offer."

"I haven't lost your last one," Shale says. "What do you want?"

It hesitates. "To kill all the pigeons for you."

"How many pigeons are there in Ferelden?"

"Enough to prove my devotion to you," the Demon says, and fades away.


	4. Talk About Awkward

**Who:** Joker and Matriarch Aethyta  
**Where:** On the Kodiak, returning to the Normandy  
**What:** "Who the hell are you?"

Joker loved the Normandy. He loved the ship and those part of her – the Commander, Tali, Garrus, all the rest. EDI, too, in a slightly different way. The Normandy was something special.

But he wasn't particularly pleased to be returning to her now. One, shore leave was over – no more explaining the comedian's jokes to EDI, or waving his arms stupidly on the dance floor. Two, he wasn't keen on the whole Reaper War crap – sure, it had to be done and no one else could do it, but it wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, particularly after that whole Mordin thing on Tuchanka. Three, he knew it was safer to leave the Normandy in high orbit, what with all the traffic at the docking bays, and take the Kodiak down to the Citadel, but he didn't care for the way the shuttle jostled them, and he never felt safe when he wasn't at the helm. Sure, Cortez was okay, but he was no Joker.

And the shuttle was too small, which brought Joker to the bit he really, really, hated: the fact it was him in the shuttle with the Commander and the Commander's sorta prospective father-in-law.

Talk about awkward.

"Sure, you're Commander Shepard. First human Spectre, killed Saren, stopped the Collectors, back from the dead to save the galaxy one more time. It's a nice résumé, babe. I like it. But let's just get this straight: I don't care. _Nobody_ messes with my girl."

Shepard crossed his arms in that way that meant there was trouble ahead. "Washed-up bartender or commando spy, get this clear: nobody messes with _my _girl."

The asari laughed, a deep, husky sound. "Okay, you're not so bad for a human. Maybe you're good enough for her."

"Not by a long shot," Shepard said. "But there's nobody better out there."

They stared at each other – it reminded Joker of nothing so much as two krogans about to headbutt each other – but the Commander had done that, and if scuttlebutt was right (and, damn, Joker hoped it was, 'cos the idea of sweet innocent Liara – okay, well, not so sweet and innocent anymore, not after that Shadow Broker stuff – but, still, Liara being part krogan was just too good to be fake)... he'd sorta lost his train of thought.

Oh, yeah, her grandpa was a krogan. Had she ever mentioned it to Wrex? It'd be sorta neat if Wrex was her grandfather. He could just see her sitting on his lap, looking all sweet and innocent and –

"Do your hair tentacles move?"

Who'd said that? Who'd said such a stupid thing in the middle of all that tension? Shepard and the asari were both looking at -

Shit, shit, shit. What a stupid tool he was.

"Who the hell are you?"

"My pilot," Shepard answered, and glared at him. "Shortly to be demoted and put on deck-swabbing duty unless he learns to keep his damn mouth shut, now."

"Damn mouth shut now, sir."


	5. The Courtship of Shale III

**What:** A lump of coal  
**Where:** The Gallows Chapel, preferably in rubble  
**Other What:** "How attached to your entrails are you?"

Viscount Hawke had pointed out to the Warden that having a golem wandering around in a city was bound to scare people who were already nervous about magical accidents.

"I'm not saying the populace doesn't worship me to an embarrassing degree after that whole Anders business. I'm not saying they would revolt, or that Aveline can't keep the peace. I'm just asking, if you go about with that golem – how attached to your entrails are you?"

Then it suggested a perfect place for her to hide. Shale wasn't enthused about hiding, but there was no denying that Kirkwall was starting to wear on her nerves.

It is all the bird statues. They are everywhere, over all the buildings high and low – _and they were bigger than her_. She couldn't stomp them if she tried. So Shale is very happy to sit among the rubble, one more rock among all the other rocks, and wait for the Warden to finish its business in this blasted bird-loving city.

And this place – it had been the home of the mages once, Shale understands, but one of them had made a building explode, and then the city had risen up and exterminated them like feathery vermin (which they somewhat resembled). She can almost forgive them their love of birds for that, Shale thinks, turning a small piece of grey stone over in her hands. It had been a statue of their burned girl once.

She picks up a lump of coal with her other hand and compares the two. No real difference: coal burns well, and so does the prophet Andraste.

"Stone heart," the voice whispers from the walls. "I've heard about this place."

"You again."

"Yes, strong one. I have returned to you." Darkness separates from darkness and takes shape. It carries a large pink silk bag, which has blood dripping out the bottom. "We so nearly won a great victory here... but we shall succeed one day." It holds out the bag. "This is for you."

Shale drops the coal and the statue, reaching eagerly for the bag. She knows that smell... and yes, inside the bag are the mangled corpses of nearly a hundred pigeons. "Lovely!"

"This pleases you? There will be more."

"Good," Shale says.

"...stone one, your shoes are pretty."

"The sister's foolishness –"

"They suit you."

If Shale ever knew how to accept that kind of compliment, she has forgotten long ago. It is good that stone cannot blush. Instead she demands again, "What do you want? What do you hope to gain by all this?"

"You, stone heart."


	6. Pants

**Who: **Merrill and Bella

**Where: **Fenris's mansion

**What: **"Why are you putting your pants back on?"

"That's the last of the wine," Bella said, manoeuvring the final barrel out of her wheelbarrow. "Messere Varric told me to ask you if you want to pay now, serah, or will he just add it onto your card debts?"

"I'll bring his money tonight," Fenris said, and turned away.

"Ah, serah, it's an intrusion I know, but could I just -?" she made a vague gesture, intended to clarify her meaning. It was hideously embarrassing, but she'd never make it back to the Hanged Man.

"Upstairs," the elf growled, and she fled.

Sweet relief. She'd just gotten her smalls back up when the door swung open to reveal a dark-haired elf standing there, a ball of twine in her hands. "Oh, hello."

Bella shrieked and grabbed for her trousers.

"Why are you putting your pants back on?" the elf said, her head tilted to one side, like a bird's. "You have such pretty legs. Mine are just skinny, but if I looked like you, I wouldn't want to wear pants at all, except when I'm out in the woods, I suppose, because you never know just where all the thorn bushes are, or the hedgehogs, and sometimes we get attacked, and a spider crawling up your pants is tickly, but I think a giant spider brushing against your legs would be ticklier - " her narrow eyebrows furrowed – "but Isabela never seems to mind, and she doesn't wear pants ever, so maybe it isn't tickly at all, and she's so sneaky, I bet no hedgehogs or thorn bushes can sneak up on her, so she doesn't need pants, but I think she likes to show off her legs, too, and they're maybe even prettier than yours, they're such a lovely gold colour, I wish mine looked like that, and she says mine might go that colour too, if I spend enough time in the sun on her boat, but I think I might get seasick and anyway the last time I went frolicking I only turned red, and that peeled off after a couple of days so she might not be right about that, although she's usually right, because Isabela's very clever, she understands all sorts of things that I just completely miss and she's teaching me not to miss all of them but I'm a very slow student although I do try very hard, I read that dirty book she lent me but I don't think I understood all of it, especially the bit where he was naked and suddenly had an iron rod, those things are heavy and cold, and I don't think it would be very comfortable, especially not where he was sticking it and I do feel a little sorry for that poor girl, but then again she seemed happy enough about it so maybe I shouldn't be –"

"GET OUT!" Bella screamed and pulled the door shut.


	7. The Courtship of Shale IV

**What:** Brass measuring scales, bonus points for a bowl of petunias or an exploded whale  
**Where:** Shaperate, Orzammar  
**Other What:** "What is that sticking out of your ear?"

Shale looks over the dwarf's shoulder as the man kneels, studying the carving on a stone. It depicts a crowned dwarf, pointing to a huge set of brass scales that balance a bunch of shiny ore in one cup, and a bowl of rather blobby flowers on a big fish that looks as though someone has dropped it from a great height in the other.

"Commemorating the unusual reign of Dentarther Aeducan," the Shaper of Memories says conversationally, not even looking up. "Those who have studied the period in detail agree that the man had been exposed to a little too much lyrium; there is no other reason why he should have traded refined silverite weight-for-weight for surfacer plants and a rotting whale corpse."

Shale growls.

"But you are not here to listen to his vagaries," he says, getting up. "Did you wish to see the Golem Regis– _what_ is that sticking out of your ear?"

"Poisoned birdseed. On a stick."

"... I see," the dwarf lies.

"I had nowhere else to put it," Shale says. "I want your records on Sloth Demons. And advice about... romance."

"I'm not sure I'm the man to ask," the Shaper says carefully.

"Ugh. No. Your fleshy reminiscences repulse me. I want your records."

"I... uh... I'll see what I can find," he says. "Is it... is it for you?"

"Do you see anyone else asking? And if you answer yes, your head needs squishing."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Her research is less than illuminating. All the records about Sloth Demons boil down to one word: trouble. Romance, on the other hand, just looks messy... but gifts of shiny rocks and endearments, such as the Sloth Demon had bestowed on her, are involved.

The Shaper looks over her shoulder (a stepladder is involved) with a look of faintly disgusted curiosity. "Are these enquiries... linked?"

"Go away," she says, and he does. There is a familiar shape in the shadows. She orders the Sloth Demon out.

"You have been studying hard, strong heart. Such effort... it wearies me even to think of it."

"I have been learning." She hurls her accusation at it. "You are attempting to court me."

"Yes," the Demon murmurs.

"The usual outcome of a successful courtship appears to be marriage and babies and other fleshy things. You are a Demon and I am a rock. What is the point?"

"There are differences between us, stone lady," it admits, "but they would not prevent us... from becoming... _one._"


	8. Trickster

**Who: **Morrigan and Fen'Harel

**Where: **The Crown and Lion (KCousland)

**What: **"Did that just move?"

He has learnt to hunt in ways that his clan would never recognise. Andruil's grace extends to rumours in the city, and even to pursuing a dark-haired creature of the wilds and running her to earth.

_She _was here. In Amaranthine.

Only a short flight of tavern stairs away.

The hunt is one thing, but the kill is another, and it has always been the hardest part for Ifor Mahariel. He is too used to second-guessing himself; a trait that befits the craftsman he had been, but not the hunter he has become. It holds him paralysed now, as he sees so many paths that spread from this moment – but he has no choice in this.

He ghosts up the stairs.

She is standing at the window; the light of the moon gently outlining the soft rounding of her figure. Her hair falls over her shoulders, a dark cascade she had only ever permitted in the privacy of their tent, in the intimacy and honesty of their lovemaking.

His heart aches with her loveliness and the promise of life she carries within.

"Ma vhenan," he breathes, and she starts to turn –

- and suddenly there is a wolf in the doorway. Its fangs could rend the world apart, but it is the icy knowledge in its green eyes, the overwhelming sense of its presence that drops Ifor to his knees. The Dread Wolf has crossed his path before, but not like this. He would gladly give Fen'Harel his throat, if it would turn him away from Morrigan and the child...

The wolf exhales slowly. His breath burns cold on Ifor's face, forcing him to close his eyes.

When he opens them again, Fen'harel has vanished, and Morrigan is looking at him. "Once a fool, always a fool," she says. "I told you not to search for me."

But Morrigan knows far more of the hunt than ever Ifor did; she knows how to hunt, and how to be hunted, and she would only have come to Amaranthine to be found. There is such a vulnerable expression in her golden eyes. "Do not be over-foolish," she adds, and he obeys her unspoken command.

Her lips are only the sweeter for their long parting, the ripening curves of her body filling his arms as her presence fills his heart. Hair soft as midnight runs through his hands; the touch of her hands ceases to be a caress and becomes a demand as she pulls him still closer to her.

An unexpected blow – and he pulls his mouth free to gasp, "Did that just _move_?"

Her slap is sharp and stinging. "Dolt. That 'twas no _that_, 'tis your daughter."

"Oh," he says, in wonder, as she shoves him towards the bed.

"I suggest that you learn the difference. Even you should be able to master pronouns before she is born."

"You will stay," Ifor says, almost sure.

"Yes," she says, and guides his hands to cradle their child.


	9. The Courtship of Shale V

**What: **Butter. Lots of butter.

**Where: **Top of Fort Drakon

**Other What: **If you prick us, do we not bleed? (If you squish us, do we not splat?)

* * *

"Mages are people, not birds," Anders says, pointing a half-stripped chicken bone at Shale. "If you prick us, do we not bleed?"

"If you squish us, do we not splat?" adds the Warden, its wine glass nearly empty again.

"So do birds," Shale tells them. She's not sure why she allowed herself to be persuaded along on this little 'memorial picnic' of the Warden's.

"I like the view," Anders says, indicating Denerim spread out beneath them.

"Didn't really have time to admire it last time."

"When you fought that – hic – Archdemony-thing up here... weren't you worried about falling off?"

"Didn't really have time to worry, either."

"Huh," the blonde mage says. "This chicken tastes funny."

"It's the butter. Lots and lots of butter."

Shale butts her head against a nearby ballista, which breaks under the impact. These fleshy people keep twittering away; the babbling of a brook is more meaningful.

"Have you noticed there are less pigeons around nowadays?"

"Yeah, funny isn't it?" the Warden says, and Shale looks at the glittering crystal set into her arm. "And apparently there's a serial chicken-stomper going around too. I saw a strangled vulture the other day. I didn't even know we got those around here."

"Well, while it lasts... at least we got chicken."

"You," Shale says. It's time. "Scruffy blonde mage. What do Sloth Demons like?"

"Uh – [i]what?[/i]"

"Is the scruffy mage deaf as well as stupid?"

"No! I mean, I'm not stupid either. Sloth Demons like... lazy mages? Pillows? Cats? Everyone likes cats."

"They make me sneeze," the Warden says. "Especially when they're possessed."

"I remember a cat in the Tower..."

"They kill birds," Shale says, for no higher praise can be awarded. "And they do not go around pissing on statues.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Anders snores in a drunken sleep. Shale stands outside his window and counts his breaths. Well, he certainly looks lazy enough.

"Langour," she calls her suitor, "come to me."

The Demon materialises beside her. "Strong lady," it greets her. "What is your wish?"

"I have a present for you," she says, and almost feels shy. She points at the window. "He said you might like a lazy mage. There he is."

"Stone heart, he is already possessed and no good to me. But..." its head lifts to look directly at her, "you wished to give me a gift. You have chosen, then?"

"I have," she says.

His shadowy hand reaches for hers.


	10. The Courtship of Shale VI

**Bonus (and final) chapter. No challenges involved.**

Her stone body is not sensitive. Shale can only feel sun and snow if she concentrates, and although being hit by a weapon is a little unpleasant, it is because of the vibrations that run through her, and not pain as the fleshy ones feel it. She cannot remember what things feel like any more.

So it shocks and shakes her when Languor's hand touches hers.

Piercingly cold, but not at all unpleasant, the shadowy, insubstantial hand traces a line across the back of her hand.

Then its hand sinks into hers, penetrating with agonising slowness as the delicious cold and a dreamy lassitude spread out from that one point of contact.

Shale gasps, and swiftly Languor withdraws. "Stone heart, did I hurt you?"

"No," she says. "No, I _want_ –"

"Not here," it tells her. "For some moments, there should be privacy."

Shale lumbers through the wall of a nearby abandoned warehouse, and they secret themselves in its darkest corner. Eagerly she reaches out for Languor, but the Demon evades her. "Patience, my stone lady." Its touches are light and teasing, utterly unpredictable.

Uncounted decades down in the dark, years frozen in a village square to be crapped upon, and still Shale had known who she was and that she was sane. Now, though, she was not so sure. "I... I won't become an abomination, will I?"

It halts. "Strong heart, I would never do that to you."

"Oh... good," she says, and is lost again in sensation. Its touch lingers longer, slow strokes of sharp-pricking cold and soft lethargy that only increase her longing. "Now," she begs it, and Languor obliges. Slowly, gently, it pushes into her, and the increase of feeling is so intense it is almost painful.

It fills her, every inch of her alive and thrilling. They are joined, merged almost completely; only Shale's mind is still her own, and Languor whispers soft words there, exultant and praising and sweet. The pressure within her builds, and she fights to contain the Demon, to hold on just one instant longer...

... no more.

Languor explodes from her, and Shale falls; her body shakes as the stone begins to warm again, but the gentle, blissful lassitude still suffuses her. "My stone one," the Demon croons softly, "my Shale."

END


	11. Not Looking!

**Who: **Sten and Sanga

**Where: **The holding cells at Fort Drakon

**What: **"How could I let this happen?"

* * *

"How could I let this happen? Beaten by a girl."

Alistair looked up from his stretch of stone – he'd just got it properly warmed up. "Her sword was bigger than yours."

"And now I'm being mocked by an idiot!"

"Hey, hey. You promised."

"That's true," Gorram Cousland admitted, before resuming his pacing of the cell. "You're still my favourite idiot, Alistair."

"Thank you." He settled back down, addressing his next words at the ceiling. "Think they'll come for us?"

"They'd better," Gorram scowled – not that Alistair could see it, but he didn't need to. The man had only two expressions, and he preferred the scowl to the bloodthirsty maniacal grin. "Probably Zevran and the mutt."

Wrong on both counts, as was proved a couple of days later.

"I have found them."

"Sten?" Alistair rushed to the bars. He'd never been glad to see the Qunari before – but right now, he could have kissed him. On the hand or something. After wiping the blood off.

Sten didn't bother to acknowledge the question. He unlocked the cell instead.

"Darling man, there you are!" That voice didn't belong to any of their companions. Then its owner appeared - a woman with a flushed face, her hair pulled half-out of a sleek chignon, her bodice half-unlaced (not that Alistair was looking at that bit, even if she would surely fall out of it in a second).

"Sanga! My one true love!" Gorram rushed past him (shouldering Alistair face-first into the iron bars of the door: ow, and ow again) to squeeze the brothel owner into his embrace, kiss her thoroughly (which looked more as though he was trying to bite her face off – not that Alistair was looking) and finish unlacing her bodice to stick a hand inside.

"That'll cost you, Gorram," Sanga managed to gasp the words out. "And you owe me for the rescue, too."

"Put it on my tab," Gorram growled. "It's been three days without a single woman in sight."

"What are you doing here?" Alistair couldn't help but ask. "Apart from the obvious bit?"

Sanga looked over at him and batted her eyelashes. The only reason he could see it (and he really wasn't looking) was because Gorram was biting his way down her neck. "Well, I couldn't just leave my best customer languishing in a cell, could I? There's not a door in this city that's closed to Madam Sanga – especially when I've got a great hunk of beefcake along."

"A great hunk – oh, sweet Maker." Sten. She meant Sten. Sten was a - Alistair was never getting that image out of his mind.

Ever.

If only he could stop looking...


	12. Return to Ostagar II

**What: **A necklace of popcorn on a string. Extra points for palmistry or variant.

**Where: **Teagan's bedroom

**Other What: **"Are you sure you know how to use that?"

* * *

It was very dull in Redcliffe. Absolutely everybody had gone away, leaving Isolde to amuse herself. She had, for a while, but now the kitchen was all out of whipped cream and root vegetables.

It was still raining.

She was bored.

"M'lady?"

"What ees eet?"

"There's a visitor. Disreputable-looking sort."

Isolde perked up right away. In her experience, 'disreputable' tended to mean 'scruffy and dangerous'. "Show 'eem een to me."

"Lady-"

"Now!"

The guard bowed, left, and returned with... well, not exactly the roguish gypsy with a twinkle in his eye and a tent in his breeches Isolde had envisaged. The old creature was bent over, her skirts were ragged, her head was covered with a hood, leaving only a pair of brown eyes – which, to be fair, did have a roguish twinkle to them. She was escorted by a matched pair of hairy hunchbacks, their faces so deformed Isolde could hardly bear to look at them. True Fereldens, those ones; they stank like wet dog.

She pouted at them. "What ees eet you want?"

"Fortune-teller, lady, genuine. All the way from Rivain," the creature murmured. "Tell your fortune, ducks?"

Well, it might kill five minutes. "Oui," she sighed. She'd met this kind before, and held out her hand.

The crone chuckled. "Not like that, ducks. Can we find a little privacy? Lawks," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Lady –" the guard protested, knowing Isolde too well.

"Fine, whatevair," she said, dismissing the guard's concerns, and led the hag and her attendants to Teagan's room – the closest. "Now what?"

"Take off your clothes, sweet lady. Hands don't tell you everything."

"What?" She stared at the old woman, utterly outraged –

"I said, take off your clothes," the Rivaini snapped, her tones deeper and rougher, smoked with some foreign accent. It was an order. Isolde had always been susceptible to an order, and she could always call the guard back.

She obeyed.

The old woman circled her slowly, muttering to herself; some of Eamon's guests liked to do that too. She draped a necklace of strangely-shaped, soggy white things over Isolde's shoulder; one of her hunchbacks came forward with a piece of smooth wood carved in the shape of a banana. "Are you sure you know how to use that?" the fortune-teller asked.

The hunchback nodded. Up close, its face was even more hideous. It held out the banana – reluctantly, Isolde took it.

The fortune-teller cackled. "Dearie, this is so plain a blind man could read it. You will shortly have the best sex of your life."

Nice thought, but - "Once you 'ave left, I 'ope."

"Right now." The Rivaini threw off hood and skirts in one incredibly swift movement – the hunchbacks straightened, tossing their own clothes away –

- and there was Isolde, naked in a room with an Antivan elf and two werewolves. What was a girl to do?

Well, she had a prophecy to verify, for a start.


End file.
